


Night Wind

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:11:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation between two men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Wind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cygna-hime

 

 

The wind blows in from the sea this night, cold gusts whipping past tent-flaps drawn tightly to guard against it. Inside many of the tents, men swear and bundle their blankets around themselves even tighter than before. Many of them mutter something superstitious about bad omens. However, inside one tent, there is none of that. The only reaction to the wind that can be found is when the lamp flickers, threatening to go out altogether, as it had done many times already since the sun had set. There is a muffled curse, and the boy - we'll call him a boy, for although he has proven himself many times over in battle and is in some ways much more mature than his companion, he somehow presents himself as younger than he really is with his clean-shaven face and his softly-spoken words - hastily cups his hands around the flame to keep it lit. It's an awkward position, as he had to reach sideways and behind himself slightly from where he's lying on his bedroll, but the heat feels good against his hands, and the wind has not yet died down. He shifts into a more comfortable position, somehow managing to overbalance the lamp in the process.

It's the hands of the second man -- for he was a man, one whom perhaps still acts as though he would prefer not to be, with a hardness in his eyes that speaks of bloodshed and death and a carelessness that has always gotten him into trouble and will continue to until the day he dies -- are what save the lamp this second time. He rights it, looking up at the boy from his own bedroll. "Careful. I may begin to think that you're afraid of the dark, with all you continue re-lighting that thing."

The boy gives him a look that says that the man's comment is beneath his consideration. He's very good at such looks, having had many years of dealing with the man to perfect them. "I thought you were asleep."

"No," the man says, and does not offer more when the boy waits expectantly.

"Ah," the boy says at long last, but he does not move his gaze from the man's face. "It's getting late, but you're not in the mood for sleeping, nor for talking."

The man snorts. "Nor for other things, if that's what you're implying."

The boy props himself up on an elbow and shrugs. "That's all right. You're not exactly good company."

"My company has never bothered you before."

"That could be because the last time you acted like this, Chiron was there to punish you for it."

There is a silence then, broken only by the whistling of the wind. Somewhere in the center of the camp, it causes something heavy to crash to the ground.

"You say that I am acting like a child," the man says slowly, sounding almost hurt.

"We came here to fight." The boy does not answer the question directly.

"And fight we did. Quite well, too."

"The war is not over yet, even if you would have it be."

The man growls, rolling over so that he does not have to face the boy. That is his usual way of dealing with such things. Ignoring them until he gets his way. When it comes to that sort of thing, perhaps he is more a boy than man. "You call it a war? More like a glorified domestic dispute. Ugh, women."

"Mmm," the boy murmurs, raising an eyebrow. "And I'm sure you'd know nothing of being driven to extremes for the sake of a single woman." His voice is soft, and were it not obviously otherwise, one might think it was an innocent comment.

The man's shoulders seem to stiffen, but it could just be an illusion made from the shadows cast by the still-wavering flame. If anything, though, it just causes him to retreat further to his end of the tent.

The boy looks up at the ceiling of the tent as though the weave of the cloth is the most fascinating thing he's seen all day, and folds his hands behind his head. "Men are dying," he says.

"That's war," the man agrees.

"But I thought this wasn't war?"

"I think you're beginning to annoy me."

"Good." Pause. The boy leans over to extinguish the flame at long last, blowing it out with a simple breath, then wetting his fingers to twist the wick and make sure that it was truly out. Their silence seems somehow heavier now, as though it were weighed down by the sudden darkness.

Finally, the man speaks. "What would you have me do, then? For curiosity's sake?"

The boy closes his eyes. "I would have you forget about the woman. Then, I would have you either fight with your men or pull your ships out and return home."

"Return home?"

"Yes."

"Without the honor of the battlefield?" It's not so much a question for the sake of an answer, but rather a question for the sake of having a question.

"It would be your choice." The boy sounds suddenly weary, as though he wishes the conversation already over and done with. "But I know that you will not agree to any of   
those requests."

"Then why bother asking?"

"Because I have another request."

"And?"

"Let me wear your armor to battle tomorrow. I will fight in your stead. It does your men no good to see you holed up in your tent like this." The boy says this haltingly, as though he's unsure of the implications his question will have.

The man thinks about this. The boy is a friend, and were he only that, he would not let him have his way. But the two of them are more than that. They have known one another long enough to be considered brothers, but that does not quite describe their relationship accurately, either. They are two halves of a whole, perfectly balancing one another. And so, the man knows his answer.

"You may," says Achilles.

And Patroclus smiles.

Outside, the wind continues to howl.

 


End file.
